


let's hope at the fight of my baby

by dangercupcake



Series: Superstition Fanwork [18]
Category: Original Work, Superstition by Superstition_hockey
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cooking, Flirting, Gen, Hockey, Hockey Injuries, Hockey Trades, Philadelphia Flyers, Quebec Nordiques, Rookie/Vet, because jacks listens to hozier, but i am convinced that jacks used to cook for him when they were kids, i feel like if you read superstition getting luc to eat is like jacks' love language, in the future luc does all the cooking, superstition by superstition_hockey - Freeform, the title is a hozier lyric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:40:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23366347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangercupcake/pseuds/dangercupcake
Summary: Claude comes home after talking to management about waiving his no-trade clause to go to the Nordiques. Jacks is Jacks.
Series: Superstition Fanwork [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724128
Comments: 19
Kudos: 83





	let's hope at the fight of my baby

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Deke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6628633) by [Superstition_hockey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey). 



Claude’s hip hurts. He’s tired. He’s angry. Everything sucks. He hates coming home feeling like nothing he’s doing makes a difference and no one would care anyway.

Ryanne’s car isn’t in the drive, but the outside lights are on and the incredibly sensible compact SUV Jackson drives is in the garage. The inside lights are on, too, in the hallway and the kitchen, and everything smells like . . . something. 

Jackson is pulling a chicken out of the oven when Claude gets there. What fucking eighteen year old rookie cooks? Especially the way Jackson does—no fucking KD with frozen broccoli in it for him. The outside of the chicken is all dark red, and, yeah, in the pan with the chicken are those tiny red potatoes and something cut up that’s orange, sweet potatoes, probably, since Jackson is obsessed with vitamins and anti-oxidents.

Actually, Claude is pretty sure _Chantal_ is obsessed with vitamins and Jackson just parrots that kid. Every fucking sentence out of his mouth is Chants this and Chants that and Chants thinks and—

Claude cuts off his brain. 

“Hey,” he says tiredly.

Jackson just smiles at him. “Ten minutes and I’ll feed you,” he promises.

“I can make my own dinner,” Claude snaps.

Jackson doesn’t look at all intimidated. “Sure, but since I’ve already made all this, why bother?”

“Don’t handle me,” Claude warns him.

“I would _never_ ,” says Jackson, but rolls his eyes as he sets the chicken pan down. He goes back to the oven and takes out a pan with dark brown rolls on it and sets that down too.

“The fuck is that shit?” asks Claude, shrugging out of his coat and dropping it onto the island. He kicks off his shoes too, and then starts tugging at his tie. 

“Buckwheat rolls. I left the dough to rise before practice and then they just take like ten minutes.” Jackson shrugs. “Chants doesn’t really like to eat white bread, and buckwheat has a good amino acid profile for protein, and a lot of fiber.”

“Buckwheat?” says Claude skeptically. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard of that before. He throws down his tie and unbuttons his shirt at the throat, then sheds his suit jacket.

Ryanne is going to give him hell for leaving his shit all over the house but he can’t cope with it right now.

Jackson shrugs. “Gluten free, sugar free, low glycemic index . . . I used to make a lot of shit for Chants with it.”

“And now you’re feeding it to me?”

Jackson looks at him from under eyelashes glinting orange in the kitchen light. “You looked like you could use some bread at practice today.”

“I had a protein shake.”

“I saw.”

Claude sighs, feeling like it comes from deep within him, and sits down on one of the stools at the island. “Captains are supposed to take care of the rookies, kid.”

“Yeah, sure, and when you have a better snapshot than me, you can do that,” Jackson sasses. Claude stares at him until he blushes. It’s Claude’s only fucking weapon against this kid. 

Jackson turns his back and fusses at the chicken for a while, and Claude watches his back move. He’s wearing a Sharks jersey—number 38, of course—and Claude debates pulling out his phone to put this on insta, and decides against it. The kid’s got enough problems, being in love with his straight best friend, he doesn’t need Claude poking at that, especially in public.

Claude remembers being in love with his straight best friend. He could be a little nicer to the kid about it, he guesses. 

“Here.” Jackson is still blushing when he shoves the plate in front of Claude. An entire half of the chicken, and the other side of the plate is full of the vegetables—the orange _is_ sweet potato, cubed and covered in chicken juices. On the next plate Jackson slides across the island are three buckwheat rolls, split open, steaming, covered in . . . butter.

“Butter?”

“Are you complaining?”

“Not at all. Fuck.” Claude digs in, not waiting for the fork that comes his way. He just picks up the entire half of the chicken and bites in, closing his eyes. It’s warm, juicy, tender, spicy. Not “hot” spicy, but spiced-spicy. Jackson left the skin on. 

Claude feels the food filling up the part of him that felt angry and upset with the day, calming him down. 

Jackson has his own plate that he’s photographing when Claude opens his eyes. He’s grinning at his phone.

“Surely you are not telling Chantal you’re eating chicken skin and butter tonight,” Claude says dryly.

“Sweet potatoes,” replies Jackson. Of course. “Lots of vitamin A and vitamin B6. He likes the way I make them, but he doesn’t know about the chicken fat.”

“Kid. I’m sure he knows. He just doesn’t tell you he knows. That’s how relationships work.”

Jackson’s head shoots up. “We’re not _in a relationship_ , and anyway he wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t—” Jackson cuts himself off and bites his lip. “Whatever, he just likes the potatoes, I’m just . . . telling him.”

“Miss him, eh?” Claude pokes some more.

“This is the longest we’ve ever been apart since we met when we were like six.” Jackson takes a forkful of potatoes and chicken together. “It’s weird.”

“I hear you guys on Skype sometimes in the middle of the night, so you’re not _so_ lonely, eh? And you go out.”

“I’m not _complaining_.” Jackson sounds exasperated. “What did they say to you in the meeting? Can you tell me?”

It’s Claude’s turn to flush. He’s so easy to read? “Nothing surprising,” he replies finally. He wipes his hand on a napkin and picks up the fork. “You know they’re putting a team back in Quebec City in a few years?”

“Yeah.” Jackson’s eyes on him feel heavy. They’re such a bright blue. He’s so _young_ but Claude knows those eyes have seen a lot; they’re not just hockey player eyes, there’s other stuff going on there too. Stuff he and Jackson haven’t addressed, except for when Claude realized what was happening and dropped a huge amazon.com box in Jackson’s room one night. Condoms in a bunch of sizes. A few different types of lube. A three-month supply of “Compare to Descovy!”—the other little blue pill. Well. They didn’t talk about it then either. Claude figures that box addressed it pretty well though. Jackson knows he knows, and can talk to him if he wants to.

“Yeah,” Claude says back to him. He looks down at his plate and keeps eating. It feels more mechanical now. The food is good, he’s just . . . 

“They’re asking you to waive your no-trade clause?” Jackson asks softly.

Claude stuffs an entire half of a roll into his mouth. It is fucking good. Damn it.

“They’re asking you to waive your no-trade so you get sent to Quebec,” says Jackson slowly, “because they’re already planning who they’re going to protect, and they want a new captain.”

Claude chews obnoxiously.

Jackson nods. He leaves the room and Claude finishes his plate. He lingers over the buckwheat rolls. They’re soft. They have butter on them. He doesn’t usually indulge this early in the season; he hasn’t dropped all his summer bulk yet.

For whatever counts as summer bulk for Claude these days.

When Jackson comes back, he has a bottle of the white wine Ryanne drinks after she talks to her mother.

Claude lets Jackson open the bottle and pour them each a glass.

“To one of the greatest captains I’ve ever played for,” Jackson says, holding out his glass.

Claude feels his heart twist as he clinks his own glass against Jackson’s.

“To my best rookie ever,” he says steadily, not dropping his eyes from Jackson’s, not even when Jackson starts to flush.


End file.
